


I'm Here Lying on the Bed of Your Tongue

by inoubliable



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adultery, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Compliant, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Not A Happy Ending, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovered Memories, Shapeshifting, Unsafe Sex, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 01:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12853878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: The man on his doorstep is tall. Taller than him, even, by a solid few inches. He’s shockingly thin –bird-boned, Bill’s writer brain thinks – and he looks a little like he hasn’t slept in a week. His mass of curly hair is big, on end, like he’s passed his hand through it more than once. It’s blonde and perfectly spiraled. His eyes are a strange hazel color, almost gold in the afternoon sun. There are tiny, silvery scars on the cut of his jaw.Bill does not know how he knows this man’s name is Stanley Uris, but he does.





	I'm Here Lying on the Bed of Your Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> "You're a heavenly creature with a real dark agenda.  
> You can turn a believer to a damned dirty sinner."  
> -[Casanova](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZcVM9C2flfg), Allie X

When Bill wakes up, he can see his breath.

It’s supposed to be a mild winter. That’s what all the forecasters said.

 _Must be nice to be wrong all the time and still get paid_ , Bill thinks bitterly, climbing out of bed to turn on the heat. Audra shifts in her sleep, but doesn’t wake. He would usually spare a moment to look at her, to admire her pretty, lax face and the way her hair fans out artfully across the pillow, but for now it’s much too cold.

The hardwood creaks unhappily beneath his feet. He wishes, not for the first time, that Audra would just let him have carpet put in. Even she hates the way it feels so cold and unforgiving in the cold winter mornings, but she has flatly refused to replace it. There are scuffs that she doesn’t want buffed out, and chips in the wood that she insists give the place character. The realtor made the mistake of telling her that the floors are original to the house, and Audra is adamant about “keeping the history” of it.

Bill privately thinks that he shouldn’t have to remember someone else’s past if he can’t even remember his own, but he does not tell her this.

The heat comes on with a deep rumble that starts somewhere in the basement. The sound always puts Bill on edge, but he doesn’t know why. He knows, theoretically, that it makes sense for the mechanics of the heater to be located down there. He does not know for a fact that they are, because he has staunchly refused to set foot into the basement in the three years they’ve lived in the house.

He doesn’t know why he does that, either.

Audra finds him in the kitchen just as the coffeemaker finishes brewing, perfectly on time as always. She is draped in a long silk bathrobe, which looks entirely too elegant when compared to the shirt she slept in, an old one of his. He’s a head taller than her, and he’s gained some weight with age, so it falls nearly to her knees, like some kind of unfashionable dress. Audra is the only person in the world who could wear his ratty tee-shirt and still look like a fashion model, especially at seven in the morning.

“You’re up early,” she says, accepting the cup of coffee he hands her.

“I wanted to get some work done,” he says, which sounds better than _I was cold_.

She smiles like she knows exactly what he isn’t saying. “I have a meeting this morning. Will you be alright in this big house all by yourself?”

She’s teasing, but Bill considers the question. He loves their house, but sometimes, when he’s alone and it’s quiet, he gets a strange feeling, like déjà vu, except he can’t for the life of him remember what he’s remembering.

“I’ll be fine,” he assures her. “I’ll just be waiting patiently for you by the door all day.”

She laughs, a high, pretty sound. Her entire face lights up when she smiles. Bill is struck, like always, by just how beautiful she is. “Who needs a dog?” she says, and pats his cheek. He makes an awful whining noise and butts into her hand like a stray that needs attention, just to make her laugh again. She returns to their bedroom to get dressed for the day, leaving Bill and his laptop alone.

Bill is already immersed in his writing by the time she leaves. She kisses the top of his head but does not otherwise disturb him. The sound of her key in the door is the final announcement of her departure, and then it is quiet.

He works best when it’s quiet. The scary things he writes just don’t come out right when things are loud and bright and lively.

There is a sudden knock at the door, so loud he jolts. He looks at the little clock on his computer. It has been three hours since Audra left. He has lost himself in the writing, again. He does not remember what he has written, although there are pages and pages of it. That happens, sometimes. It’s usually his best work.

A knock, again. Louder than before. It’s not Audra. He doesn’t think her tiny fist could make such a racket.

“I’m coming!” he shouts, clicking his laptop closed. It’s probably someone from the neighborhood, here to tell him his grass has grown a few centimeters too long. That’s what he gets for moving to a block of retirees and stay at home mothers.

Except, when he opens the door, it isn’t one of his neighbors.

The man on his doorstep is tall. Taller than him, even, by a solid few inches. He’s shockingly thin – _bird-boned_ , Bill’s writer brain thinks – and he looks a little like he hasn’t slept in a week. His mass of curly hair is big, on end, like he’s passed his hand through it more than once. It’s blonde and perfectly spiraled. His eyes are a strange hazel color, almost gold in the afternoon sun. There are tiny, silvery scars on the cut of his jaw.

Bill does not know how he knows this man’s name is Stanley Uris, but he does.

“Stan,” he breathes, and Stan gives a little twitch, like maybe he’s just as surprised at being recognized.

“Hi, Billy.” No one has called Bill that since… since when? How does he know this man?

They stare at each other for a long moment. Bill knows, apropos of nothing, that there is a little scar in Stan’s hairline. If he pushed his hair back, he would probably be able to see it. His hand twitches with the desire to do so.

Stan glances down, like he noticed the movement. Quick as a striking snake, he grabs for Bill’s hand, yanking it out into the light of day. He stares at the scar on his palm for a long time, face contorting through several different emotions, all too difficult to name. He does not release Bill’s hand, but he holds out his own. There is an identical scar there.

 _It was a Coke bottle_ , Bill remembers. _It was a dirty old glass bottle, and I’m surprised we didn’t all die of tetanus._

The thought makes something in his brain shiver. It doesn’t feel like an original thought. It feels like he’s heard it before

_(Johnny?)_

like someone else said it

_(Danny?)_

like he can almost remember.

_(Eddie.)_

Stan’s thumb digs into the scar, like he’s testing the give. Like maybe he expects it to burst open again, even though it’s been almost thirty years.

“Do you remember me?” Stan asks. His voice is not at all what Bill expects it to be. It’s a little high-pitched, lilting. He gets the feeling that Stan is mocking him.

Maybe he knows that Bill cannot remember anything. Bill is struck with shame. “I… I don’t.”

Stan nods, like that’s exactly what he expected. He takes a step forward. Bill suddenly realizes that they’re still on his front porch, that they’re in full view of all his neighbors. Mrs. Keller, across the street, is staring at them with interest.

Stan’s strange voice snaps him back. “Are you going to invite me inside, Billy?”

Bill wishes Stan wouldn’t call him that. It makes him feel a little itchy, like there’s something just under the surface of his skin that he can’t quite reach.

He steps back and gestures Stan inside. He lifts a hand to wave at Mrs. Keller, but she has disappeared back inside of her house. No one else is out on the street. It’s cold and quiet, and Bill holds his breath because it feels like even his breathing is too loud.

When he shuts the door, Stan pushes him up against it.

“I missed you,” he says, mostly a sigh. Bill wants to ask him a million things, but suddenly his throat feels too small and his tongue feels too big and he stammers out something senseless.

 _I used to have a stutter_ , Bill recalls.

“Stuttering Bill,” Stan grins. Their faces are so close together that Bill has to move his eyes around to see it all. He looks at Stan’s nose, his sharp cupid’s bow, his strong chin. He can’t bear to look Stan in the eyes, because he’s scared of what he’ll remember there.

Stan curls his fingers around the side of Bill’s neck. His hand is shockingly cold, but Bill supposes that’s to be expected in this weather. Who knows how long Stan has been standing out on the stoop.

_How did he find me?_

“Bill Denbrough is a big name these days,” Stan says, like he can see straight inside Bill’s head. “I have to say, though, I didn’t expect England. Don’t you miss home?”

 _Home._ Bill’s brain gives another heavy shudder.

Stan’s eyes are almost gold, even out of the sunlight. “I missed you,” he says, more insistently this time. “I thought about you every day.”

Bill wants to say something, anything, but he can’t manage a single word.

Stan kisses him, then, which is something he both expects and doesn’t expect at all.

It’s a strange kiss. Stan is cold everywhere. Even his tongue is cool, like he’s been sucking on ice. It’s not entirely unpleasant, and the pleased noise Stan makes when Bill shivers is almost familiar. They’ve done this before, Bill realizes. It comes back in a rush.

_Stan’s hands, much warmer than this but smaller, fumbling with his belt in the backseat of his car._

_Stan’s mouth, pressed behind his ear, whispering that he has to be quiet, his parents are just down the hall, and you don’t want to wake them up, do you?_

_Stan’s chest against his back, pressing him into the bed, trapping him while his hips stroke languidly, while he…_

Stan fucked him. Stan _fucked_ him. Bill’s chest feels tight with the memory. He thinks, briefly, of Audra, of the way he’s going to smell her perfume when he has his face pressed to the pillow, because that’s where this will end and he already knows it. It feels inevitable.

Bill leads Stan to the bedroom by the hand. There is a moment, at the bedroom door, where he does not think he can physically turn the knob, because if he just stays in the hallway, then none of this will feel real and he can pretend it never happened. He can forget again, he knows he can.

Stan reaches around him, opens the door, and pushes him inside.

Having Stan undress him feels like it’s happening in two different dimensions. He feels both seventeen years old and forty. He does not look the same. His hair is thinning, and he has gained a bit of weight in his gut, though Audra insists that’s mostly his imagination. He sucks his stomach in when Stan touches him regardless, but Stan does not seem at all perturbed. He touches Bill like he is remembering everything again, like he is cataloging all the changes for future reference. The idea that this might ever happen again makes Bill light-headed and he has to sit down on the edge of the bed. Stan towers over him like this, larger than life.

“Do you want me, Billy?” Stan touches his face. His hand is surprisingly strong, gripped around Bill’s chin. “Tell me you want me.”

Bill feels a flash of base fear, and he does not know why.

“I w-wuh-want you.”

Stan’s smile is slow and a little vicious. His canines are sharp. Bill feels a little bit helpless. He’s already hard.

“Lie down.” It’s easy to listen to Stan. Bill was always the leader, he remembers, but Stan made him let go of that a little bit. Stan always made him relax. Made him feel good. Made him come.

Bill really, really wants to come.

He lies down.

“Good boy,” Stan says, with another flash of those dangerous teeth. Bill feels shaky and overwhelmed, and he could not say anything if he wanted to. It feels like every word he has ever said is stuck in his throat.

There is a bottle of lubricant in the nightstand. Bill considers reaching for it, but Stan does first, like he knows exactly where it is. Bill thinks maybe he kept it in the same place when he was a kid. He has always been a creature of habit.

 _But not like Stan_ , he remembers, staring up at the man. Stan hasn’t undressed yet, but his clothes are a little rumpled. Bill wonders if it’s bothering him. He remembers that Stan used to remove all his clothes at once whenever they did this, folding them into a neat pile. His clothes were always clean and pressed. His shoes were always shined to perfection.

He looks a little dingy in comparison, now. He isn’t unclean, but he looks out of sorts. His hair is wild, and his button-down is coming a little loose where it’s tucked into his pants. Stan does not seem to notice. Perhaps he has conquered his issues. Perhaps he wants Bill so badly it doesn’t matter so much anymore.

The thought shoots a little, selfish thrill through him, and he parts his legs without Stan asking him to.

The lube is only marginally colder than Stan’s fingers. Bill hisses, and Stan grabs his thigh like he thinks Bill’s going to pull away. “You can take this.” Stan sounds chiding. “You’ve been through so much worse than this.”

And Bill almost, almost, almost remembers what he means, but then Stan’s fingers are inside and Bill can’t think.

He hasn’t done this in almost thirty years. It hurts, and Stan is brusque about it. He does not seem at all concerned about Bill’s pleasure. Bill tries to remember if he was like this, before, but everything is too hazy.

He gets used to two fingers after awhile, and then there are three inside of him and he aches all over again. He grabs for Stan’s arm, nails biting in. Some vindictive, bratty part of him wants Stan to hurt, too. But Stan makes a noise like maybe it isn’t hurt he’s feeling, and Bill feels both disappointed and very pleased.

Stan pulls away. When Bill opens his eyes, Stan is already undressed. The sight of it makes Bill feel dizzy, because he can remember those hipbones, the slight concave curve of his chest. He has more body hair than Bill expects, but his knees are still knobby and his feet are huge. _He’s very proportional_ , Bill thinks, and he considers saying it aloud because he knows it will make Stan laugh, but Stan is already climbing on top of him, and then they’re kissing again, and Bill can’t remember what he was going to say.

“L-Like this?” he murmurs instead, his leg hooking over Stan’s hip.

Stan hums an agreement. “I want to look at you.”

It hurts. Bill knew it would, but it’s so much _more_ , like he’s being slowly split apart. Stan is not gentle, but he is not abrupt either. His hips are insistent, pushing forward in steady increments. Stan’s hair brushes his face. He’s propped up on one hand, the other cupped around Bill’s hip, holding him down with a strength that Bill does not expect. Bill hears a loud, high-pitched whine, and it takes him a long time to realize it’s coming from him.

“It’s s-s-so _m-much_ ,” he whimpers, sounding a little teary. Is he crying? _Too much_ , he thinks. It’s too much. He wants to push Stan away, but the way Bill shoves at him is weak and unconvincing.

Stan gives a ragged sound, like it’s torn from his chest. “You were so much better when you were young,” he says, which is a strange, jarring thing to say, especially then. “You were so much more.”

Bill was never competitive like Stan or Richie (God, _Richie_ , he remembers Richie; coke-bottle glasses, buck-teeth, he’d laugh so hard if he knew Stan was fucking Bill, he’d never let it go), but something about being _less_ makes him hurt. He wants to be good. He wants to be more.

He blinks away tears. Stan, through Bill’s swimming vision, looks much more like he used to. He suddenly doesn’t seem so gaunt but he looks just as serious, his face set, like all of his concentration is centered on fucking Bill. Bill likes that thought. He arches his back, pushing up into a kiss that seems to surprise Stan. His rhythm stutters, but when it resumes, it’s harder. _Punishing_ , Bill’s writer-brain thinks. Bill wonders if he’s being punished for forgetting.

“You we-were always so g-g-good at this,” Bill says, trying to let Stan know that he _remembers_ , he remembers Stan fucking him just like this once upon a time, except it was really nothing like this at all. Bill knows thirty years can change a person, but this feels like someone else entirely.

“You have no idea,” Stan mutters, but he sits back on his haunches and yanks Bill into his lap, and that’s it, that’s _it_ , that’s what Bill missed. Any memory he might have had a grasp on fizzles out, and all that’s left is his body and the way Stan is using it, his hard tight thrusts shoving against a spot that makes him jolt, makes him pant, makes him _want_.

“ _Please_ ,” Bill manages, his voice cracked to hell. It’s like being seventeen again. “Oh, G-God.”

He’s not going to last, but Stan already seems to know that. He has a tight grip on Bill’s erection. His hand has still not warmed up, but the chill is not enough to dull the throbbing need to come. “You’re going to remember this,” Stan says, and Bill does not hear any room for argument. “You’re going to remember this for the rest of your life, Bill Denbrough, and it’s going to keep you up at night, it’s going to make you crazy. I’m going to live underneath your skin and you’re never going to be able to get me out, not until you’re dead and gone. Even then, I will remember.”

Bill comes, then, not entirely because he wants to. There is so much hectic energy in the room that Bill feels like he’s suffocating, and it’s made worse by the way Stan stares at him, unblinking, his eyes glowing gold. His hand reaches out and wraps firmly around Bill’s throat. It feels much bigger than it should, and still so very cold.

Bill does not know if Stan comes, because all the air seems to leave the room at once and Bill’s entire body goes limp. He passes out.

* * *

When Bill wakes, the telephone is ringing. The room is grey, but he does not get the feeling that much time has passed. He sits up, bleary.

Stan is gone. The only indication that he was ever there is the ache, low in Bill’s back, and the sweet-sour smell of sex.

The phone stops ringing, and then starts immediately again.

Bill climbs out of bed, pulling on his jeans. There is something still wet on his thigh, and he does not know if it is lube or something else. He firmly does not allow himself to think about it.

The phone is in the kitchen. Audra’s keys are not hanging by the door, and he is horribly grateful for that.

“Hello?” he says into the receiver. His voice is very rough.

“Is this Bill Denbrough?”

The voice is familiar in the same way Stan was. Bill’s stomach sinks. “Yes?”

“This is Mike Hanlon.” Bill remembers him at once. Tall, black, the kindest man Bill ever knew. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we have a situation.”

The scar on Bill’s palm tingles, a phantom memory. “You’re going to ask me to come home.”

 _Don’t you miss home?_ Stan had said.

Derry, Maine. Bill remembers that now.

“Yes.” Mike sounds very regretful and very, very tired. “I’ve already called the others.”

The others. Richie. Eddie. Ben and Beverly, both of whom Bill can suddenly recall, though every memory is hazy.

 _Stan_.

“And they’re all coming back?” Bill asks. He does not want to, but he will not be the one to break the promise.

Mike’s hesitation makes Bill feel a little sick.

“Almost everyone,” he finally says. The way he says it tells Bill everything he needs to know. Something has happened.

“Who isn’t coming?”

Mike’s silence is longer this time. “I spoke to Patricia Uris this morning,” he says after awhile, and Bill does not know who that is. That’s not Stan’s mother’s name. Her name was Andrea. Bill remembers that. “Stan’s wife.”

Bill does not say anything. He does not even breathe.

“She found him last night. After I called. He… killed himself.” Mike sounds like he wants to say more, but Bill must make a sound because he decides against it. “I’m so sorry, Bill. I know you two were close.”

Bill’s entire body crumbles. He sinks to the floor. It is cold, and it reminds him of Stan’s touch. He feels sick, suddenly. Mike is talking, but it’s a buzz of noise that Bill does not understand.

 _I’m going to live underneath your skin_ , Stan had said.

The heater kicks on suddenly with that same horrible shuddering sound. Bill has a terrible flash of being thirteen years old, standing on the basement steps, staring at the clown holding Georgie’s hand in the quiet wet dark.

 _We didn’t kill It_ , he thinks, without fully understanding what that means.

 _You’re never going to be able to get me out_ , It had said.

Bill thinks about those eyes, gold in the sunshine, gold in the dark. He remembers them, now.

They didn't belong to Stan.

“I’ll come,” Bill says, cutting off whatever Mike is saying. He knows what he has to do. He has to finish what they started. He has to kill that fucking clown. “I’ll come home.”

**Author's Note:**

> me: I want to write Stenbrough  
> me: writes the most fucked up Stenbrough fic of all time


End file.
